


Mementos

by AnonymousPumpkin



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Is this the book or the musica?, It's a little bit of both, Just gals bein pals exploring the darkness, who fucking knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10073003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: Every dancer and chorus girl had crept down to the cellar at some point or another, where ghosts lurked and rested. Christine wasn’t sure when she decided that she wanted to be the one to travel further down than anyone else, but she felt in her heart that it would be so, and she was determined that it be tonight, and that Meg be her companion.A short little story about two little dancers leaving something to be remembered by.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this, like....literally a year ago. And I just....never wrote the last paragraph until two days ago. So. Here we go. Technically, a fandom prompt, but I don't remember the prompt at all or where I got it

The Opera House was silent and still, save for two small ghosts that slipped through the halls. They giggled softly and moved silently through the shadows, going ever on in a quest that led vaguely downward. The halls were quiet except for their footsteps, which were muffled by layers upon layers of dust undisturbed for many years. They were the only bit of brightness to be found down here, of life or of light. Their gowns were so white that they shone even in shadow, but more literally than that, one of them held a candle. Their hands were tangled together very tightly, so tightly in fact that Christine’s fingers had gone pale and she felt needles at her fingertips. But she didn’t dare let go, eyes darting excitedly from shadow to shadow, seeking the monsters from the dark stories always fresh in her mind. Later she would scold herself and say that a young woman of seventeen was much too old to be jumping and shrieking at creatures from fairy tales, but in this moment, all she could feel was the excitement and the romance of it all. They were two vulnerable maidens, braving the darkness where few dared to tread, their way lit only by a single candle and the occasional beams of moonlight that seemed to come from nowhere, thrusting out of the blackness and onto the wood floor like silver curtains across an empty stage.

“They will miss us soon,” Meg whispered, but made no move to turn back. She was leaning so close to Christine that she could feel her excited breath on the back of her neck, and her voice was so close that the whisper seemed deafening in the total silence around them. She was holding onto Christine very tightly, one hand wrapped about her wrist and the other resting on her back. Ordinarily she was the bolder of the two of them, racing ahead with a wild laugh and bouncing curls but here, in the dark, she had met her match, or perhaps merely thought it more exciting to be back with Christine, who walked very slowly and carefully so as not to make a sound.

“We’ll back before they even know we’re gone,” Christine assured her, though her mind was not on those they had left behind at all. Here in the dark, she had met her match as well as little Meg had, but in a very different way. Here she stepped lightly and crept forward and cast her eyes about as if the darkness was her domain, a giddy grin on her face even as her heart pounded and her mind raced from images of fearsome beasts and malevolent goblins and twisted ghouls.

Every dancer and chorus girl had crept down to the cellar at some point or another, where ghosts lurked and rested. Christine wasn’t sure when she decided that she wanted to be the one to travel further down than anyone else, but she felt in her heart that it would be so, and she was determined that it be tonight, and that Meg be her companion.

The light of the candle cast the cellar in mysterious dancing shadows. There was little to be gleaned from the shapes that emerged out of the darkness, and in the absence of anything solid, their young and excited minds substituted the worst fiends they could imagine. Every empty space took the form of another nightmarish creature to grab them, and they clung to each other so tightly at times that they seemed one girl instead of two. Other times, one of them would grow bold and run ahead, pulling at her companion by her fingers, leading her through the night towards their adventure.

There were workers in the first few cellars, men bent over so far that their knuckles tangled with their ankles and their drooping mustaches caught dust on the ground. They squinted at the little ghosts that rushed by, occasionally stopping to offer a polite greeting or mumbled apology. At first, Christine knew precisely what their jobs were, for she considered herself  _ very _ well educated about these kinds of things, but then they went a level deeper or a hall further, and she found she was not so sure anymore. But she still nodded to them if they caught her eye, and apologized politely if she ever misstepped or kicked their coats.

They stopped at the next set of stairs, and Christine tightened her grip on Meg’s hand. Without speaking, they both knew that this was the deepest either of them had gone.

Meg leaned over and put her chin on Christine’s shoulder, and peered into the shadows thoughtfully. Neither of them spoke, but an entire conversation seemed to have been had in the brief moment that their cheeks brushed. They moved as one, almost leaping down the stairs. Christine’s little hand was wrapped around their candle, protecting it. She was proud that it only shook a little bit.

Because neither of them had ever been here, they were less certain where to go. The long corridors of this unfamiliar places seemed more menacing than any of them could have thought possible, the walls leaning in close and the shadows whispering threats at the two girls who had wandered down where pure girls did not belong. On the level above, Christine was somewhat confident, having visited down there twice with the other girls, but here she had no knowledge at all. Even though every level had the same basic set-up, the raw new-ness of this place put her ill at ease, and her excited and romantic feelings dimmed somewhat.

Meg walked ahead of her now, back in her element of the terrifying and unknown. Doubtless her mind was conjuring up new tales to tell the other girls when they returned...or perhaps she was merely that focused on the road ahead. Her fingers were hotter on Christine’s skin than the candle she carried, a comfort in this cold and dark place. At first, Christine wasn’t brave enough to look about and so she focused on the curls that hung across Meg’s shoulder, which spilled out of the sloppy bun she’d twisted just before their quest began. Slowly she willed her eyes to slide up over Meg’s back and over her shoulder, and then finally, she was bold enough to walk a bit faster and stand  _ next _ to her, though she still gripped her hand tightly. They walked so close together that they tripped over one another several times. The first two times were terrifying, for Christine was certain something was going to come and take advantage of their weakness. The third time it happened, however, they finally broke out into nervous giggles, which shattered the fearful tension that had spread over them. They were once again intrepid explorers in a dangerous but ultimately defeatable land, and they set out with their eyes wide open and their candle held higher.

There were boxes and machines down here beyond their comprehension, but for the most part, it was empty space. Every few feet, they would notice a little knob on the floor or wall, indicative of a trap door, but they knew better than to pull on those strings. Christine poked curiously at some forgotten structure that must have been left since the House was built, and wondered aloud (in the softest whisper that she could manage) whether anyone had seen it since it in years.

They ran and ran and ran themselves in circles until they were quite lost, turning the cellars into a maze in their excitement. Several times Christine pulled Meg back into a slow walk, her fingers slipping out of hers so she could cradle their small flame, whispering to it as if her voice would inspire it to stay lit a little while longer. As soon as she was positive they would not be left in darkness, they set off again. Christine was positive they were going around the ways they had come, but it was too exciting an adventure to give up so soon. They were exploring where no one else had gone before!

They slowed back down, and Christine lifted the candle high, drifting closer to some of the looming shadows around them. All around them were beams of wood that stretched high up to the ceiling. Somehow they knew that they had gone quite far from where they were safe and where imaginary monsters were less so. Christine felt her fingertips trembling, and hid the shaking against Meg’s palm.

“He will be angry with us,” Meg whispered suddenly. Her eyes flew up, to the rafters high above them, where every swinging ropes and curtain hid her doom. Her fear was something instinctual, something so deeply ingrained in her that it was second nature now. Anyone who had been at the opera house for longer than a year felt it, though some remained strangely resistant to its brand of common sense. Everyone knew that to wander the house at night was to invite disaster, and that to go down below, down to the cellars beneath where the fire men worked, was to invite death--or at the very least a good scare.

“He?” Christine repeated the pronoun like a dumb child, but there was knowing lurking in her eyes. She didn’t look at Meg, eyes darting around the shadows. She stood like an animal prepared to bolt, one hand gripping the candle and the other holding Meg’s hand as tightly as was possible.

Meg pinched Christine’s arm, still finding a moment to be playful in her fear. “ _ He _ !” she repeated emphatically. “The Opera Ghost!” She whispered it even lower, barely above a sigh, for fear that merely speaking the name would bring the spectre to them. “He will be angry with us for wandering into his place! He will find us and catch us and turn us into...into…” She paused a moment, searching her mind for a fate dire enough for their circumstances. “...he will turn us into marionettes! Marionnettes to sing and dance for him in his lair!”

“Marionettes?” Christine repeated, and couldn’t help a little laugh in spite of herself. It was a shaky frail thing that died halfway up her throat, but it calmed her nerves. “Oh, Meg, you tell the most...the most  _ ridiculous _ stories!”

“It’s  _ true _ !” she insisted, and in that moment, it truly was. Meg had a way of speaking things in such an earnest and terrified manner that one could not help but be drawn in and believe with all one’s heart that her tales were true. Christine couldn’t help herself when she gasped and leaned in closer, looking around wildly for the wooden limbs of other silly girls who’d wandered too far down.

They explored this final cellar thoroughly, wandering around and around and around, trying to memorize every shadow and every corner. At the back of the room there was one more set of stairs going down, and it was quite unlike the others which had had guard rails and were right in the beaten path. This one was cut in the wall and it twisted down into the depths, and there was nothing to protect the chronically clumsy from tumbling over the side. From it a smell of something wet and cool emanated, simultaneously alluring and repulsive. Christine stood staring at it for a very long time. Shadows danced across the top step, taunting her.

“We’ll not go down,” she said, but neglected to whisper and so startled herself quite badly. Meg laughed breathlessly, either at the fear or at the sight of Christine starting so violently, and leaned in close to her again. She rested her chin on Christine’s shoulder once more, and their cheeks brushed. Christine let her head fall down so that their temples leaned against one another, and they stood in this half-embrace for a long time, just staring at the stairs going down to the depths of the earth. They merely observed it, neither willing to cast it into brighter light. After a while, Christine’s eye wandered, and fell upon something that glinted in the dim light of their dying candle.

She was loathe to break the comfortable intimacy they had set up, especially when it offered her such comfort against the darkness, but curiosity drove Christine to perform a great many foolish actions, and she pulled away from Meg to investigate the shining thing.

Meg followed slower, fingers tangled into the sash that trailed behind her. She whispered a question, and knelt down beside her. Christine probed careful fingers into the dust, reaching hesitantly into the shadow.

It was a file. Christine was surprised at it, and for a long while she could not figure out why. When the question finally came to her, she murmured it aloud, though she expected no answer.

“I wonder why it is still shining...and sharp!” she marvelled. “Surely it should have been here for a long time and should be dull!”

She ran it over in her hands, admiring it far more than it warranted. It was a novel thing simply because it  _ was _ . It was not especially fancy or beautiful, but it was obviously well-loved and well-kept.

An idea occurred to her suddenly. She gasped softly and cast her eyes about. When she found what she sought, she placed their candle carefully on the floor and carefully stepped away. Meg picked it up immediately, having a bit more sense than Christine in that moment. She watched, breath held, as Christine very carefully and steadily placed the file against the wooden pillar they knelt beside and began to carve.

She had no idea at first what to write, and before she even knew it, she had simply scratched her signature into the wood. That seemed rather conceited, however, and just below it, she scratched a brief message to...well, to whatever other ghosts may find themselves down in the cellars.

Meg said nothing, but when Christine was done, she leaned on her again. Christine reached up and found her free hand, and tangled their fingers together again. The shadows seemed a bit less menacing when they were pressed together and Christine could almost hear the sound of Meg’s heart beating.

They knelt for a long time there, simply staring at the marks she had made in the wood. Christine reached out and traced the crude lines with her fingertip (she had tried valiantly to make it neat, but it was very difficult to be neat quickly with a file on wood while standing at such an angle), humming an old lullaby absently to herself. She thought of other girls, years from now, creeping in the dark hand in hand when everyone was else was asleep. They would stumble to this very spot, breathless with terror and excitement, and they would turn about the corner and they would see the stairs and they would kneel down and they would see this mark, and they would know they were not alone here in this dark place.

“What if he  _ does _ get angry?” Meg whispered again. She sounded equally horrified and delighted at the concept of it. Her voice had a kind of reverence in it, and it sounded almost as if she were pleading Christine to repeat her previous assurances. “Now that you’ve marked up his domain?”

“He won’t, I’m sure of it,” Christine said. “What harm have we done, after all? It is just a little mark in the wood, after all, just a little…” She frowned, trying to think of just the right word. “It is just a memento!” She brightened, and almost smiled at her own genius. “Yes, a memento of us! So the House will remember us. Forever and ever!” Another thought occurred to her, and she pressed on excitedly, breathlessly. “And it is for him too! Years and years from now, when we are all dead and gone, he will see the mark and remember us! And he won’t be alone down here!” She thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t like for him to be alone for ever.”

Meg couldn’t help but laugh at that, a little huff hidden behind her hand so the shadows couldn't hear. “Whatever would he want to remember  _ us _ for, Christine?” she asked, but, caught in the romance of it, she took the file from Christine's trembling fingers  and carved her own words into the pillar. Christine watched with a hint of smug pride at this thing that she had started. “There. Now he shall be able to remember the both of us!”

"Forever and ever!" Christine repeated again, and Meg couldn't help but agree.

"Forever and ever!"

They whispered reverently and breathlessly into the shadows as if they were taking a vow, and they both felt a little shiver between their shoulders, like someone was watching and had observed their words.

Meg put the file carefully back just where Christine had found it, and tugged her companion back towards the stairs going back up.

“C’mon…” she murmured. “We should get back before they really  _ do _ miss us!”

They returned with cobwebs in their curls and dust on their eyelashes. Their candle was nearly melted away, and the shadows were tugging at their ankles. They paused at the top and bottom of every flight of stairs to take a breath and bid farewell to the dark kingdoms they left behind. They rejoined the other dancers and lost themselves in the chaos and color of rehearsal, and the thrill of the night eventually faded until it was nothing but a fond memory. For many years, they would both sometimes stop and smile to themselves remembering the night they two brave girls ventured into the world of monsters and darkness and left their mark.

And, for not as many years, there would sometimes be a ghost (or so he pretended) who would come up that final staircase from the depths and he would stop and stare at the the spark of life left for him by the two brave girls. He traced his thin fingers over the wood curiously, and for a very long time found a strange wonder and comfort in the words he found there.

And after many  _ many _ years, brave little dancers and curious little boys would steal down, down, down in the deepest depths of the opera house and they would wonder at the signatures at the second deepest level of the Paris Opera House. They would cling to each other and make up stories about  _ C. Daae _ and  _ Meg G. _ , and their bravery, and their lives. And they would take with them the words left to serve as memento and as comfort in the dark:

_ Meg G., for C.D., led the way _

_ C. Daae, for the ghosts, brought a candle _


End file.
